


The Smell of Blood

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Books) [24]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: After a winter apart, Geralt smells blood on his friend.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (Books) [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624276
Comments: 7
Kudos: 120





	The Smell of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I am in love with the idea of Dandelion having a house in Oxenfurt. It’s non canon and there’s absolutely no basis for it, but it’s his favorite city and he deserves it. 
> 
> He rents out the bottom floor to students from Oxenfurt and keeps the top floor to himself.
> 
> So yeah, it's not canon that he has a house.

Perhaps Oxenfurt was Dandelion’s favorite city, but Geralt felt very differently. Everything that Dandelion loved - the noise, the crowds, the endless taverns, and the intellectuals from the college - was perhaps everything that Geralt disliked about it. 

If it wasn’t for Dandelion, he wouldn’t have gone to the city at all.

He had a key to the house - Dandelion had insisted he should have one - but he didn’t need it. As always, Dandelion didn’t lock the fucking door.

Geralt snorted, made a mental note to chastise him for that - _again_ \- and slipped inside. He took the back entrance, slipping up the stairs quietly to not disturb the students who had rented rooms. The back door that Geralt had entered through was completely separated from the lower floor and was the only way to access the top of the house, giving Dandelion a measure of privacy so he could almost pretend there was no one else there with him.

Geralt plodded up the stairs. The smell of blood hit him at the top.

“Shit,” he whispered. “Dandelion?!” he shouted.

“Geralt?” A familiar blonde head poked around the corner, although his eyes were tired. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was-” he waved his hand over his shoulder.

“You’re hurt.”

“Only a scratch. Or two.” His hair was limp, he hadn’t done anything to form his usual curls, and his the fine clothing he favored had been replaced by soft leggings and simple long sleeved shirt. Both in dark colors, the perfect shade to hide blood.

“I’d like to see it.”

“I imagined you would," he grumbled. "Make yourself at home, I’ll get your supplies.”

But Geralt shook his head. “Sit down, I know where everything is.”

Dandelion dropped into a chair at the table, watching as Geralt fumbled in the shelves for his medical kit.

Then Geralt sat his swords down and stepped forward, grateful than he’d gotten there when he did. Dandelion didn’t do well on his own.

“Do you have any lectures lined up?” Geralt asked as he sat across from him, holding out his hands and waiting for Dandelion to offer up his injury.

“I’ve only just arrived.”

Geralt frowned. “I thought you planned to winter here.”

"Plans change," said Dandelion miserably. The chill of winter was still in the air, since spring had only just begun, and Dandelion had a shawl draped over his shirt which he drew more tightly around himself before laying his hands on the table, palms facing up.

“Left or right?” Geralt asked, eyes darting between them. 

“Left.”

Geralt pushed up his sleeve. Angry red gashes covered his wrist, all in various stages of healing. “Bad winter?”

"I thought to visit my cousin but when I arrived in Kerack he wasn't home. I spent some time there by myself, a mistake I won't make again."

Geralt could only nod and hold Dandelion's wrist in careful fingers. He never knew what to say when Dandelion hurt himself.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. If he hurt himself being clumsy, Geralt laughed at him.

But when he did it to himself, on purpose, the Witcher was at a loss. He’d never met someone who slashed their skin the way Dandelion did. He’d tried asking about it, but Dandelion would only give him partial answers. _“It helps, Geralt,”_ was all he would say. It seemed to be all he knew.

“If you want to be in pain, tell me.” It was a tired conversation, one they’d had countless times.

“And what? You’ll spank me?” Dandelion’s laugh didn’t reach his eyes.

“Perhaps.” Geralt poured a bit of alcohol on Dandelion’s wounds - it wasn’t needed, he’d clearly been caring for the wounds himself - but it served to settle them both, assuring Dandelion that someone cared and promising Geralt that his friend would be alright.

“I’m fine, Geralt,” Dandelion whispered.

Geralt could only nod. After all, he could only take Dandelion’s word for it. He didn’t understand what went on in the poet’s head or what horrors lurked in his past, although he had vague ideas. 

A empty house he hesitated to return to.

A cousin who barely seemed to tolerate him.

A half brother that Dandelion once hidden from in a market.

A fake name.

A father whose name never passed his lips.

 _Happy childhoods make for boring company,_ Yennefer had told him once.

“You worry too much.” Dandelion’s free hand reached out to pat Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine, my friend. This only happens when I’m alone.” He smiled. "And I'm not alone now, am I?" 

He paused in sorting through the bandages. “I left you alone.”

“No Geralt,” he shook his head. “You left me here, thinking I’d winter at the school. It was my own decision to strike off to Kerack, not yours.”

“How’s the ferret?” Carefully he wrapped Dandelion’s wrist in clean bandages, careful to cover the wounds fully and seal in the salve he’d added.

“Cousin _Ferrant_ sends his regards.” Dandelion paused, then added, “And requests you don’t return to Kerack. Ever.”

“Did he know?”

“About my cuts? No, Geralt, he wouldn’t understand. Or he’d try to take me to his uncle.”

 _Cousin Ferrant’s uncle_. Dandelion’s strange way of avoiding talking about his own father at all. “What would his uncle say?” asked Geralt. He couldn't help but be curious whenever the bard's father was mentioned, but it never seemed appropriate to press for more information or to outright ask. 

“I’m not certain he remembers my existence, to be honest, Geralt.”

Not knowing what else to say, Geralt said, “I remember you.”

“Of course,” said Dandelion. He pulled his freshly bandaged hand away from Geralt, then pushed himself to his feet. “I had just drawn a bath when you arrived. Now the tub isn’t terribly large, but if we’re creative…..” He winked.

Geralt blinked. “Don’t get your bandages wet.”

Dandelion groaned, softly muttering, “Innuendo, Geralt, it escapes you.”

“Just keep your hand out of the water.”

Dandelion folded his arms over his chest, a slight gleam in his eyes. “You may just have to make me.” Then he turned on his heel and vanished.

“What?”

“Geralt you’re joining me in the tub!” he called over his shoulder. “Now!”


End file.
